


Your Presence is a Present

by InsanelyYours96



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Buying Really Expensive Gifts Maybe, Damn Didn't Work Again, Gift Exchange, How Do You Make Friends?, M/M, Secret Santa, Tom in Harry's Timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21943969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanelyYours96/pseuds/InsanelyYours96
Summary: “You’re kidding,” Harry groaned, staring down at the name of his recipient morosely.Tom Riddle.The one person who might despise Harry more than Draco Malfoy, and all because one of Harry’s charms went awry in First Year and somehow ended up breaking the Slytherin’s nose. Harry had apologized, of course, and it definitely wasn’t half-hearted. He bribed the House Elves into letting him make biscuits, wrote the most formal letter he had penned since he had to send a Thank You note to Lord Black when he was seven, and presented both items to Riddle with a bow in front of the entire Great Hall so the Slytherin’s would all recognize Heir Potter groveling before a muggleborn nobody. In the end Riddle had publicly accepted the gifts, but later pulled Harry aside and burned both the packet of biscuits and an unopened letter.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 18
Kudos: 450





	Your Presence is a Present

“You’re kidding,” Harry groaned, staring down at the name of his recipient morosely.

_Tom Riddle._

The one person who might despise Harry more than Draco Malfoy, and all because one of Harry’s charms went awry in First Year and somehow ended up breaking the Slytherin’s nose. Harry had apologized, of course, and it definitely wasn’t half-hearted. He bribed the House Elves into letting him make biscuits, wrote the most formal letter he had penned since he had to send a Thank You note to Lord Black when he was seven, and presented both items to Riddle with a bow in front of the entire Great Hall so the Slytherin’s would all recognize Heir Potter groveling before a muggleborn nobody. In the end Riddle had publicly accepted the gifts, but later pulled Harry aside and burned both the packet of biscuits and an unopened letter.

Harry had gaped, mortally offended. There may have also been a bit of shouting involved.

By the end of First Year everybody knew that Harry Potter and Tom Riddle were mortal enemies.

So what did one get their mortal enemy? 

Harry frowned at the neatly scripted name as though it would change if he disapproved enough. Of course, it didn’t. 

All right then.

If Harry was going to get Riddle a gift, it was going to be the best gift he had received in his entire life. 

(A weird form of competitiveness, all things considered, but Harry had always been extremely thoughtful in any gifts he had given, and Riddle would be no exception.)

Nodding to himself, Harry folded the scrap of parchment and slipped it into his robes.

First things first, he would have to examine the target. Figure out what Riddle liked, what he disliked (besides Harry), and what his ideal gift would be. Then Harry would surpass any expectations by one hundred and ten percent and _crush_ Riddle under the superiority of Harry’s gift giving skills.

* * *

When they were in Second Year he had offered to let Riddle break his nose in return, if he was still so angry over it. The boy had sneered and left him bleeding.

Harry’s nose healed, but Riddle’s animosity never faded.

* * *

For the next three weeks Harry observed Riddle everywhere. In classes, in the Great Hall, in the library. He was being more or less discreet about it, and his friends all knew the reason so they didn’t bother him overly much. 

But of course, Riddle had noticed as well.

“I’d say take a photograph,” Riddle smiled pleasantly, hands placed on the armrests at either side of his chair, effectively looming over Harry, “but I would really rather you not. Understand, Potter?”

Harry, not the least bit cowed (even if it was _very possible_ Riddle was building some kind of teenaged army to take over the world), smiled back just as sweetly. “Why Riddle, I’d _never_. I have the real thing right in front of me. Why settle for a picture?”

Something dangerous was unfurling in Riddle’s stormy eyes, but Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. He was curious to see how Riddle would respond to his clear disrespect—if things would happen differently without the audience. They barely ever had confrontations outside the public eye, and though this was the library it was also deserted in favor of sleeping in or making the trek to Hogsmeade.

“My, aren’t you bold,” Riddle bit out, as though he hadn’t known that since they were eleven. “I understand I’ve caught your interest, but I’d rather you stop with the stalking, Potter. Unless you want me to report you to Professor Snape?” 

Harry’s felt his cheeks heat at the (not altogether inaccurate) accusation, and he had to check his first reaction. Snarling in Riddle’s face probably wasn’t wise at the moment, even if he was being threatened with a bullying toerag like Snape.

“Fine,” Harry shrugged, as nonchalantly as possible. “I’ve already got what I needed, anyway. If you’ll excuse me, Riddle.” 

He pointedly looked at Riddle’s hands, boxing him in, and after a long moment of intense staring Riddle pulled away. His smile was as charming and utterly false as ever. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. 

“Gladly.”

Dark eyes remained intent on Harry’s back until the library doors creaked shut behind him.

* * *

The book - the _grimoire_ \- is old and fragile, and takes Harry weeks to track down and even longer to spell into decent condition. 

Some of the writing remained unintelligible squiggles, but Harry did his best. Overall, it was a rather brilliant present. One that quite possibly trumped any other Riddle’s ever received.

 _From:_ taunted the gift tag. 

Harry bit his lip, banishing the tag with a flick of his wand. The point of this game isn’t recognition, though that didn’t mean Harry wouldn’t be extremely smug when Riddle coveted the gift.

Just one day left. 

* * *

Harry watched eagerly as Riddle carefully flipped the book open to the last few pages, eyes quickly absorbing the words.

For a split second he looked positively disgusted.

Harry blanched when the gift went up in flames (just like the letter, just like those biscuits).

He had worked so, _so_ hard on that and Riddle had just burned it into nonexistence.

Harry felt heat prickle at his eyes, and _no_ , no way in hell was he going to _cry_ over it, that would be completely ridiculous, childish, uncalled for—

Just like Riddle burning the grimoire had been. 

Harry should confront him. He should demand to know why Riddle had done that, just like he had demanded to know all those years ago.

(He hadn’t received an answer then, and what would he care for one now?) 

Instead, Harry turned and walked away.

The grimoire was Riddle’s. Sure, Harry had spent hundreds of galleons on it, had researched for hours how to mend books in deteriorating condition, had put all of himself into finding and then fixing the perfect gift, but in the end Riddle could do with it what he wanted.

Apparently, Riddle wanted to use it for spell practice.

Fine.

Whatever.

It hardly mattered to Harry at all!

* * *

He still had the burn on his arm from making those biscuits, faint though it was. Now Harry would carry the burn of Riddle destroying his hard work as well, unseen but ever present.

Let it be a reminder to never think better of Riddle than he was, and to never trust the rotten plonker with anything, either.

* * *

“Potter,” a smooth voice bit out behind him, and oh. 

Bloody brilliant. This was just what Harry needed, really. It’s not like he’d been toiling away over his Astronomy assignment for hours, struggling to put theories and constellations into coherent text. 

A silent _tempus_ proved it was past curfew. 

“Riddle,” Harry returned pleasantly enough, as if he didn’t want to bash in the others skull. “As much as I enjoy your company, I was just leaving.”

“Were you now?” Riddle hummed disbelievingly, which, fair enough, Harry was still spread out on the ground with a chart of constellations. 

“Maybe not,” he shrugged. “Still, don’t you have things to go set on fire? I’m a little busy here.”

There was a brief pause, and Harry glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Riddle scoff. “Of course that was you. Why am I not surprised?”

Harry’s hands tightened into fists, and he made his way to his feet to face Riddle fully. “Unappreciative as ever, how am _I_ not surprised,” Harry returned, trying to use the same measured tone as Riddle. Still, his bite was audible. 

“What did you expect, for me to keep a book of tawdry limericks on intercourse?” 

“I didn’t expect anything,” Harry snapped, before he actually processed the words and flushed in shock and humiliation. “What! I would never—what are you even talking about, why would I give you something like that?! I only skimmed it, but I hardly believe the _Gaunt_ _grimoire_ is full of—of erotica!”

 _“Gaunt grimoire_?” Riddle sneered. “Please, Potter, at least own up to your vile sense of humor. You get a special little kick out of humiliating me!”

“Sod off, you tosser!” Harry shouted right back, throwing any iota of grace or indifference off the tower’s ledge. “I spent _weeks_ tracking down and fixing up that bloody book! I would know better than you, who spent _five seconds_ glaring at it. You chose to burn it? Fine! I don’t even remotely mind! But at least have the decency to not corner me in the Astronomy Tower, spouting complete rubbish!”

Harry went silent, despite having a lot more he wanted to shout in Riddle’s face, and took a few deep, panting breaths, trying to wrangle his temper. It was amazing, the state a few remarks from this utter prick could get him in despite his years of pureblood training. Not that he used his proper manners often, but he was certainly never as uncouth as he always seemed to find himself in front of Riddle. 

Well, whatever. It’s not like Riddle would be writing his father about it, and it’s not like James would care even if he did. 

“You aren’t lying,” Riddle noted, after a long moment of silence. Harry met his eyes with a fearsome glare, only to be startled by the genuine confusion he saw there. 

_Of course I’m not_ , Harry thought peevishly. 

How little Riddle must think of him, to imagine Harry would actually give him such a tasteless and embarrassing gift in public. It was something his father might have done, but Harry had never behaved so cruelly in his life. 

Riddle, however, had a history of burning well-meaning gifts to ash.

Harry gulped another breath, trying to calm himself. 

“I’m not,” he said coolly. “Now assign me detention, take House points, whatever. Just get it over with, will you?” 

Harry just wanted to sleep and forget this entire week happened. If this was all just a rubbish dream he could wake up and send the bloody book to Gringotts instead. Have them store it for a few generations, and let one of his descendants return it to its rightful place. That is, assuming Tom’s descendants wouldn’t be a complete and utter prat with an affinity for fire.

“Oh get over it, will you,” Riddle spat, for once sounding more exasperated than acidic. “It was six years ago, for Salazar’s sake. Every time you look at me you’ve got fire in your eyes.” 

“It was yesterday!” Harry protested.

He may be bold, but Harry wasn’t brave enough to admit that Tom Riddle was the first person he’d ever put himself out there for, and he’d been gutted for his effort.

He had tried to offer Riddle peace in dozens of ways over the years, and giving back a piece of his heritage was the last thing Harry could think of. He had put everything he had into it _again_ , and again it—

It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, Harry thought fervently.

It was six years ago, and again yesterday, and who really even cared. Riddle could do what he wanted. In the grand scheme of things several hundred galleons and a scar was nothing. 

And hey, at least Harry knew how to restore books now.

“Wait a minute,” Riddle murmured, voice strangely gentle. Like Harry was some weak, wounded animal, and _fuck him_ for that. Harry was a lot of things, but _weak_ had never been one of them. “That isn’t the book I received, Potter.”

What was he talking about? Harry had _seen_ it burn—

And how would Riddle even know that the book Harry gave him was not the book he received, unless— 

Harry jerked his eyes to Riddle’s mouth, wand falling to his hand, not pointing at anything but helping slow his galloping heart nonetheless. 

“Stay out of my mind,” he snarled. Merlin, but Legilimency was a disgusting art. Prying into others minds, their hearts, their _secrets_ was utterly depraved. _It was no wonder Riddle was using it,_ Harry thought snidely. 

His wand lit with sparks, and he abruptly stowed it before he could actually attack the Slytherin. 

Harry wasn’t looking to be expelled, and not even Dumbledore could dismiss it as ‘boys being boys,’ when Harry had some rather nasty incantations sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Harry met Riddle’s eyes fearlessly, sure that he would detect any attempted intrusion now, even if he couldn’t stop it.

“Stay out of my mind,” he repeated, more calmly this time. “And explain to me how that wasn’t the book you received, when I saw it catch fire in your hands.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to categorize the expression on Riddle’s face as he took a step closer. 

There was something fiercely hungry there, and for the first time in years he didn’t look like the faultless, reputable prefect he so carefully projected himself as.

“I’ll show you,” Riddle replied, drawing his wand to his temple. He pulled it back slowly, and with a wave an image of Riddle flipping through a book was projected, moving as though it were an enchanted portrait. A sharp jerk caused the image to zoom in on the book's cover, which, from close up, was rather obviously not the book Harry had spent hours laboring away over. He knew the grimoires texture by heart, had run his hands and wand over it enough that the difference was obvious from so close. Yes, the fake had been charmed with the same distinct discoloration of the Gaunt grimoire, but it was not the book Riddle should have received. 

Harry frowned at the disparity, stepping closer, and with a flick of Riddle’s wand it changed to the text. 

And that… Harry was fairly certain the Gaunt grimoire hadn’t had any jokes about incest in it, or references to breast sizes. It was no wonder Riddle had looked disgusted before the book had gone up in flames; Harry felt the same, now.

He looked up, meeting Riddle’s dark gaze. “All right,” he said. 

Riddle’s brow rose. “All right what?”

“All right, I acknowledge that you’re not a complete dunderhead on top of being a prat.” Riddle tapped his fingers on his thigh whenever he was irritated but didn’t want his face to show it. Harry had been the cause of this enough to know the tick by heart. “Also that the book you received isn’t the one I gave you. Guess it’s time for a scavenger hunt…”

Riddle tipped his head in acknowledgement, ignoring the first half of his comment altogether. “It’s nearly twelve o’clock. As worthy as the results might be, perhaps you should save your Auror exercises for tomorrow. We do still have class in the morning.”

Harry wondered, exasperated, if Riddle actually believed Harry would do as he said. 

He never had before. Why start now?

“True,” he said regardless. It wouldn’t do to let the prefect know Harry fully intended to continue breaking curfew, and perhaps a few more rules while he was at it.

Harry turned from Riddle’s scrutiny, gathering his belongings with a silent wave of his wand. 

“Night, Riddle.”

“Good evening, Potter.”

It was only as Harry arrived at Gryffindor tower to stow his belongings that he realized Riddle hadn’t used the opportunity to take points from Harry. 

_Huh,_ he frowned. _Interesting._

* * *

It took Harry three hours to track the grimoire down. 

Hogwarts may have had many old, enchanted artifacts, but none of them were saturated in Harry’s own magical signature quite like this one.

He was somehow not at all shocked to find it in the trunk of Ginny Weasley, who had passively (and occasionally not so passively) loathed Riddle since she was a first year. Though Harry was disappointed, as Ginny was supposed to be his friend. 

Then again, he hadn’t talked about how much time he had spent salvaging and repairing the grimoire, just mentioned it was a perfect gift that not even Tom Riddle could dislike. 

Naturally, Ginny wouldn’t have wanted Riddle to have something he would have treasured.

Still. Harry was going to have to talk with her.

* * *

The next day Harry gestured for Riddle to follow him after classes ended. They wove through a few corridors before Harry found a suitably abandoned one to pass off the grimoire. 

He tried not to read into how pleased the gift made Riddle, or how strangely kind Riddle had been acting since he pried into his mind. He had no clue what exactly the Slytherin had gathered, but either way it wasn’t knowledge Harry had been willing to part with.

“This is a lot for a random gift exchange.”

“It was meant to be yours,” Harry dismissed, turning his eyes to the wall so he wouldn’t stare at the way Riddle’s fingers caressed the books spine. 

Now was the time to walk away. No matter how strange Riddle’s behavior had been since he realized Harry had intended to give him a grimoire, the Slytherin had emotionally traumatized him more than once and Harry had already promised himself not to give the teen yet another opportunity to hurt him. He had hunted down the book because he had spent all that time and effort locating and restoring it to give it to Riddle, and Harry wasn’t one to let petty schoolboy grievances get in the way of giving an orphan back their heritage. 

Even if said orphan was one of the most stuck up, emotionally crippled asshats he had ever had the displeasure of meeting. 

“Thank you.” 

Two words, hoarse and forced, made Harry stop dead. 

He turned slowly, squinting suspiciously at the image that awaited him. Riddle had the book tucked to his chest, both arms wrapped around it. His robes were no longer second hand and his hair was clipped short and styled to perfection, but in that moment Harry could vividly see the eleven year old boy he had once wanted to befriend. 

At eleven Tom Riddle had fascinated Harry. Back then it had felt like he was staring into a warped mirror, and his reflection had made him want so much that his heart ached. Tom Riddle was the boy he wanted to have as his first friend, but he had not been wanted in turn. 

Harry blinked and the image was gone, along with any vulnerability he might have imagined with it. Riddle was straight-backed and blank faced, and the only reason Harry could believe he meant those words at all was how carefully he treated the grimoire in his hands. 

Harry turned on his heel and walked away without a word.

After all, there was nothing more to say.


End file.
